


Rotten Roses

by rhythmicroman



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Happy Ending, Like, M/M, Nicknames, Regret, Riddles, Roses, Symbolism, a LOT of riddler-ness, also, are briefly mentioned - Freeform, followed by a LOT of fluff, gay movie nights, guest starring Sylvia The Penguin, meet me in the pit, nygmobblepot is canon and y'all can fight, really cute gay nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: Love is a funny thing.One man might be able to see it from the second it blooms. He’ll hide it and care for it, and smile as he holds his loved one close, and treat him as if they’ve been together their whole lives, despite him never even knowing.The other may be blind to it. He may know that it exists, but refuse to acknowledge that it blooms in him as well – he may shake his head and point his gun and pull the trigger, refusing to be anything outside the norm he’d created for himself. The norm of “monsters don’t love”.Until the world stops.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Ozzy, I know you're reading this, so I hope you know I'm a gay mess, hahah-)

Love is a funny thing.

One man might be able to see it from the _second_ it blooms. He’ll hide it and care for it, and smile as he holds his loved one close, and treat him as if they’ve been together their _whole lives,_ despite him never even knowing.

The other may be blind to it. He may know that it exists, but refuse to acknowledge that it blooms in him as well – he may shake his head and point his gun and pull the trigger, refusing to be anything outside the norm he’d created for himself. The norm of _“monsters don’t love”_.

Until the world stops.

And goes silent.

The air around the man stands grey and cold. He watches the man he loved fall slowly, drifting, eyes unusually focused, arm outstretched.

He waits until he’s out of sight, then drops his gun and heaves a laugh – a broken laugh, a shaky laugh, made of nothing but disgust.

_What kind of monster is he?_

The ground around him is stained with drops of cherry-red, blurred to beautiful roses as he squints his eyes, tears clouding his vision. He lets out another shaky sob-laugh, and the thorns of his imaginary roses scrape up his hands, his wrists, his arms – tugging on his sleeves, pulling him down, down, to meet the corpse of the man he loved.

When the tears and laughter stop, he stands, looks up to the sky, grabs his gun, and marches away, hiding his every emotion.

_What’s the point being a monster if you can’t even admit it?_

 

* * *

  

A thousand lifetimes seemed to pass before he next saw his face – and his breath caught in his throat when he did. He was the same, but with whiter skin, and sharper, colder eyes, and all sorts of dirt on his jacket. He mocked him with words and actions, kissing him gently, walking around him in circles, chanting his name.

He screams to shut up. To leave him alone. He’s dead, why can’t he just _forget?!_

The frame hung on the wall shows a man crying, alone.

 

* * *

 

 

His riddles became more vicious. His wordplay more violent. He turned his literature into _weapons, daggers, knives, digging into people’s heads and cutting them cleanly and carefully until they could barely think straight._

He almost forgot what he’d done, until he ran by the dock one day; and, gulping down an acidic taste, he walked as fast as he could until it was just a speck on the horizon.

  

* * *

 

 

People, of course, were curious.

_“Are you okay?”_ they’d ask, like parrots, chirping the same dull tune. _“You look so sad!”_ they’d shriek, like children.

_“I’m fine.”_ He’d say, every time, and every time it’d work, as nobody bothered to ask a second time.

It wasn’t like they really cared.

When the GCPD first hired him, years ago, they made a point to show him that he was disposable and he was to blame if he got in the line of fire.

Sometimes he wondered if _anyone_ would care when he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Best to dress sharp when taking down a kingpin.

He smoothed his jacket and tipped his hat, smiling softly at his own reflection.

He turned in one fluid motion, walked smoothly out of the door, turned the knob on another-

_“Oswald, how do I look?”_

…His memory returned in one bitter swoop as he slammed the door shut, backing away, fingers running through his hair.

He _really_ needed to stop doing that.

 

* * *

  

The day Oswald returned was the day he let himself feel again.

He looked… _angry._ Nothing new. He’d seen him angry before.

The yelling he got, he deserved, he knew. The shove, he deserved that too.

…The apology, he _wasn’t_ expecting.

He had no idea what the apology was even for, but nodded along nonetheless, agreeing with every word that came out of his mouth, never bothering to correct perfection.

Ozzy still had that same confident half-stride, that same deliciously evil smile, that same disco-vampire haircut (that had never touched a brush _in his life)._

And as Ed returned to his side, smiling nervously, he felt it in his heart – he still had the same nervous stumble and dorky voice and tendency to _“yes, sir!”_ or _“no, sir!”_ everything Ozzy said.

Normalcy wasn’t something he desired, _not anymore_ – so the absolutely twisted absurdity of it all sent thrills up his spine. He honestly couldn’t ask for more.

 

* * *

 

Sylvia was a _great_ gift, if you asked him.

Oswald, despite having a hatred for his nickname, _did_ love penguins so – and so, when Ed visited the local zoo, he made sure to take one for safekeeping.

Oz looked a little… _concerned,_ at first, but quickly welcomed the baby emperor penguin as their collective child, patting its soft fuzz and talking to it in the softest voice Ed had ever heard him speak in.

He couldn’t help but smile when the other man handed the bird back to him, narrowed his eyes, and said, _“You’d better be an involved father, Riddles”._

 

* * *

 

 

Nights definitely seemed a lot less lonely, now that Oz was there. He’d smile and nuzzle up to Ed, and Ed would snuggle back. It was quiet and peaceful, _yes,_ but still never _lonely._

…The silence was broken whenever Ed began to sing.

At first, it was the same song every night. The pretty lullaby Ed had heard somewhere-or-other, that Ozzy seemed to love so – and then it changed, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes barely a whisper.

Oz would _never_ admit that he liked it, though. He had his dignity.

 

* * *

 

 

The 14th of December. Oz’s birthday.

It wasn’t much – Ed wasn’t good at these ‘social’ things – but he figured watching every movie in the house and getting drunk as shit was good enough.

And maybe he cried the hardest in Toy Story 3. Not like _you_ wouldn’t.

 

* * *

 

He sat, legs dangling over the edge of the dock, fingers tracing the dried, brownish patches of blood that nobody bothered to clean.

The twisting, scraping roses that surrounded him were wilting and falling away – the thorns slowly grew blunter, the vines looser, and he could finally breathe again.

He could finally feel again.

A smile forced its way onto his face without his permission, _the pesky thing_ – and he sat, gazing up at the setting sun, as the roses of guilt around him dangled towards the water, brown petals exploding into the blue water below.

Oz tapped his umbrella behind him, looking unimpressed. Annoyed, he muttered out some order for Ed to _‘come on before **I** shoot **you** ’_, before turning and walking away.

Ed laughed, jumped to his feet, and giddily followed, leaving a trail of rotten rose petals behind him.


End file.
